


Apologies at the Diogenes

by Galadriel1010



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Gen, Post-The Final Problem
Language: Esperanto
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29904951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galadriel1010/pseuds/Galadriel1010
Summary: After their return from Sherrinford, Sherlock reaches out to Mycroft on Mycroft's turf.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	Apologies at the Diogenes

Mycroft looked up from his work at Anthea’s knock, and set his pen down when he noted her expression. She looked uncertain, which didn’t suit her at all. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes, sir. It’s just… your brother is here to see you." She glanced down, recalling his exact words no doubt. "I have had him admitted as your guest, and he is taking tea. He says he is in no rush, and at your convenience. And to tell you that if you don’t wish to see him, you are under no obligation to do so. The world is not ending, it is not relating to a case, it is purely a social call."

He stared at her. "Sherlock said that?"

"He was very precise," she told him. "Particularly about the world not ending, he wanted me to emphasise that."

This new solicitous Sherlock was a welcome, if perplexing change, and one Mycroft felt it prudent to encourage, so he picked up the report he’d been working on and gestured towards the door with it. "He’s in the Strangers’ Room? I’ll be with him shortly. I really do need to get this dealt with."

It was only a few minutes later, with the clocks chiming two, that Mycroft ascended the stairs into the lobby of the Diogenes club and approached the desk. The steward confirmed Anthea’s story, not that he’d doubted her for a second. Sherlock was there, and had given no more detailed indication of his intent than saying that it was a social call upon his brother. There were twitching newspapers throughout the room as Mycroft left to join him, highlighting the unprecedented nature of such an occurrence.

His feet were silent on the rug until he entered the strangers’ room and its oak parquet, but Sherlock had still turned towards him before he entered. He was standing by the bookcase, hands behind his back loosely, and skimmed a final glance over the shelves for a second before turning to face Mycroft. "I meant it when I said I could wait, if you’re in the middle of something. It’s no hardship to drink tea and admire the books."

"I wrapped up my work. The novelty of your visit called for reciprocation." He lifted his chin. "Anthea assures me that the world is not ending, brother mine. What brings you to the Diogenes?"

Sherlock hated the Diogenes Club. Found it oppressive and stuffy, full of uninteresting people with an over-inflated sense of their own importance. It was Mycroft’s territory, not his, and he did everything he could to avoid meeting there. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, the words "I came to apologise to you" were very low on the nearly exhaustive list of possibilities Mycroft had compiled. He blinked at Sherlock and tilted his head. "Whatever for?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I’d go through the list, but I’m sure you have meetings to attend this week." He looked down at the floor. "But specifically for the incident at your house. It was cruel."

"You weren’t to know," Mycroft said, even as his heart contracted painfully at both the reminder and the most genuine apology he or possibly anyone had ever had from Sherlock Holmes. "But thank you."

"I did know. I said it myself that night, you were terrified of her."

In an attempt to dull the swirl of nausea the reminder had triggered, Mycroft gestured towards a pair of chairs by the fire and rang a bell for service. "I am," he agreed quietly. "You’ve met her. How are you not?"

"Too busy trying to work out whether I hate her or not," Sherlock admitted, as he collected his tea from a side table and joined Mycroft by the fire. "I don’t want to. And yet…"

"It is hard. I still remember her as a little girl. I’ve never forgiven her for some of the things she did to you."

Sherlock watched him. "I had no idea."

"I’d rather it had stayed that way." He sighed. "Your animosity was a small price to pay for your safety."

"I’m glad it didn’t." He sighed. "Although on balance I’d rather you’d told me up front than us go through all of that. It was quite tiresome, and the clean-up at Baker Street alone will take months."

Despite everything, Mycroft chuckled at that. "Mrs Hudson can finally redecorate. Replace that ghastly wallpaper." The look Sherlock gave him told him that nothing of the sort was going to happen. "Ah well, at least I shan’t be permitted up to expose myself to it more often than is necessary."

"Oh, she’s looking forwards to having you round for tea as soon as it’s done. You saved her life, after all." He smirked, damn him, at Mycroft’s groan. "I heard about your heroics."

He sighed. "She would have been fine. The division of the house was done well, and the internal walls deflected the blast. I merely…"

"Vaulted the bannisters in order to reach her quicker and shielded her with your own body from the worst of the debris. Legwork, dear brother, at your age." He raised his eyebrows thoughtfully and set his teacup aside. "Of course, if you hadn’t been able to clear the stairwell that quickly you would have been seriously injured or worse, so it’s fortunate you haven’t forgotten everything."

"It would rather have spoiled Eurus’s fun." He broke off whilst a silent waiter brought another pot of tea, and as soon as he was gone decided to reach for the decanter instead. It was that sort of afternoon. "She never truly did understand us, though. Not if she was surprised by you choosing Watson over me."

Sherlock leaned forwards, the leather of his chair creaking beneath him. "Mycroft." He waited until Mycroft had turned to look at him before he continued. "We have had our differences over the years. Well, that’s putting it mildly. But believe me, I would never, ever… It was never going to be one of you died in there."

He was frozen in place, stopper still in his hand ready to be replaced. "You can’t mean…"

"I am not the Iceman, remember? Neither are you." He dropped his gaze again and accepted the glass when Mycroft passed it to him. "I had to see how she would react, that’s all."

Mycroft’s knees were suddenly weak, and he sank back into his chair gratefully. "Thank goodness she wasn’t done with you then. I… I couldn’t have lived with myself."

"And you think I could?" Sherlock looked up at him. "I have killed before for you, brother. Do you think it would have stayed my hand if it were me who had to die?"

"What do you mean… Magnussen?" He stared, he couldn’t help it. "That was for John…"

Sherlock scoffed. "Really? Come on, John can look after himself. Mary could definitely have looked after herself if I hadn’t got in her way." He took a sip of his whisky and Mycroft noted, in a detached sort of way, that his hand was shaking on the glass. "But you’ve always been too noble for your own good."

"I’m not sure how any of that equates to me having a shred of nobility at all."

He chuckled again. "You’ll get there." He swirled the glass to watch the ice bounce against the sides. "She must have been watching us for a long time, and had control of the island. But how did she know to pull the trick with Moriarty’s video? I thought there was only two of us knew it was supposed to be a death sentence. Unless she wanted me where she could keep an eye on me."

"She didn’t," Mycroft told him. "It wasn’t her."

"How do you know? It wasn’t one of Moriarty’s network. I checked, everywhere, and none of the survivors…"

"It was me," Mycroft cut across him, staring down into his glass. The silence stretched out in ripples until he had to disturb it. "The video was taken from the footage he recorded as Rich Brook. And if it hadn’t worked, I had plans to extract you. Six months was enough, I though. Two months until the birth, then three months of maternity leave, although I doubt an agent of her skill would have required a full three months…"

Sherlock laughed. "Mary? Of course." He looked up at Mycroft again. "But why? After everything I did, everything I have done…"

"I told you," Mycroft reminded him softly. "England needed you." In the spirit of their newfound honesty he smiled and forced himself to admit, "I needed you."

"I’m sorry." Sherlock told him. "I’m here now."


End file.
